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"L-listened to y-you?" she sputtered indignantly.
"Didn't I say I'd help you?"
"And then turned round and left for London," was the scornful rejoinder.
"Did you think I'd abandoned you, darling?" He approached the bed. In his hands was a pile of clothing which she barely looked at, being mesmerised by the sweet, fond look he bent upon her. Good grief—a few minutes alone with him and her mind turned completely to mush.
"I am not your darling," she snapped, rather savagely.
"As you like. Here." He dropped the garments into her lap. "Get into those."
She glared down at the little heap, and then blinked as she recognised what it was: his clothes. What on earth was he about? "Why?" she demanded. "Why must I go back?"
"Because I said so. Because you haven't any choice. Because anything you like, only do hurry up. We've got some hard riding ahead if you're to be back before the family is."
"I am not," she announced, folding her arms across her bosom in a very determined way, though, actually, it was to conceal its heaving, "going anywhere until I hear an explanation. It was bad enough having Will order me about all this time, when at least I knew why. But you appear out of nowhere and start dictating—"
"Darling, I'm only trying to help you," he said, soothingly, sitting down upon the bed again. "There isn't time to explain everything. Can't you just trust me this once?"
"Trust you?" Her voice dripped sarcasm. "You've only just drugged the future Duke of Thome. Not to mention the fact that you've never behaved properly in all the time I've known you. Or done anything but tease and mock and lie. Trust you, indeed. I don't know why," she went on, angrily, "I ask you to explain, when you're bound to lie about that as well."
"I have, I agree, lied to everyone else on the whole blessed planet. But, Alexandra, to you I’ve hardly lied at all. Why do you scold so?"
He looked so genuinely baffled that she began to wonder why herself. Oh, what was the use, anyhow? She dropped her gaze to her hands. "I'm tired," she said. "I'm tired and my head is spinning, and nothing makes sense. Now you tell me I must go back. Oh, Basil, how could you?"
"How could I what?"
"You left me," she blurted out. "You left me and let me think you were gone for good—" She stopped short, realising that she was on the brink of betraying herself.
"I'm sorry, my love. I shouldn't have." He took her hand in his. "But does it matter to you what I do?"
"No," she lied, snatching her hand away.
"No, of course it doesn't. It's too much to hope. No reason on earth you should trust me, is there?"
She shook her head.
"Not even when I'm only hours away from solving the Burnham problem once and for all?"
She looked up at him, suspicious still, though hope fluttered faintly within her.
"Not even," he continued softly, "if I say I do it all for you because it matters to me what becomes of you?"
She shook her head again automatically.
He went on more lightly, "No, I suppose there's no helping that—not now, at least. Well, then, here is the situation. We must get you and Will back for a hundred reasons I can't go into now. Except that I will have laboured in vain if you run off with him. I did understand—correct me if I'm wrong— you weren't really keen on doing so."
It was useless to pretend otherwise. "I wasn't," she admitted. "I'm not."
"Then won't you please do as I ask? I can give you about half an hour to change while I deal with the innkeeper and see about horses. I promise you, it means the end of the Burnham business—without alternative fiancés and husbands. I give you my word, my love."
Well, she hadn't any choice, had she, whatever his word was worth? Will was useless at present. And she could hardly go off by herself, even if she had anywhere to go. She acquiesced.
"Oh, you are wonderful." He dropped a light kiss on the top of her head, then left the room.
She stared at the door for a moment, her hand creeping up to touch the spot where his lips had been. Of everything that baffled her—how he came to be here, why he'd drugged Will, what this mysterious plan was to solve the Burnham problem—it was this that puzzled her most. All the usual endearments, the usual mix of melodrama and farce...then one small, affectionate gesture to upset all her conclusions.
It recalled that afternoon they'd ridden together, when he'd put aside his practised arts for a while and treated her like a friend. He'd promised to help her then. But if he'd meant it, why in heaven's name had he gone off without a word of explanation, letting her think he'd gone out of her life for good?
"Oh, Basil," she murmured to the empty room, "it's always 'why' with you."
The room making no suitable reply, she shook her head and turned to the business at hand.
It was a disconcerting and troublesome business. For one, there seemed to be at least nine thousand fastenings to unfasten before she could get out of her dress. For another, his clothes didn't fit. The shirt was too big, and his trousers, which were indecently snug about her hips, gaped even more indecently at the waist. Frenziedly, she unbuttoned the trouser flap and stuffed her shawl inside, as padding. It felt stupid, and looked stupider, but at least it helped disguise her unmasculine curves. Having no idea how to deal with the neckcloth and afraid to crumple it, she ignored it, and jerked on waistcoat and coat. Apparently, since he'd not supplied her with his footwear, her own half-boots would do.
It was the oddest feeling to be wearing his clothes. Though they were fresh and clean, something of him pervaded them—something that made her feel uncomfortably warm and flustered. Nervously she pulled and tucked and pushed at the garments. Then, when she was certain nothing more could be done to improve her appea
rance, she sat down on the edge of the bed and waited.
In a few minutes there was a light tap on the door and Basil's voice asking if she was decent.
"If you can call it that," she answered, turning pink. She turned pinker still when he entered the room and, after studying her for a moment, broke into a smile.
"You needn't laugh," she snapped. "You could hardly expect a perfect fit—and I hadn't a valet to help me."
"I would have been thrilled to death to valet you, my dear, if you'd only asked. Now, if you'll pin your hair up, I shall tie your cravat. In that at least you shall not be faulted."
She did as he asked. But when he stood so close to wrap the linen about her neck, her knees grew shaky and weak, and her heart promptly commenced knocking in concert.
He was, she thought, an unconscionably long time about it. When, finally, she began to express impatience, he retorted that it was no simple business when the cloth was about his own neck; to have to work backwards was a feat of inexpressible difficulty.
"And it doesn't help—" But he thought better of it and held his tongue.
No, it didn't help at all that Alexandra in trousers—in his trousers—was provocation beyond all endurance. His hands were unsteady. They wanted to be everywhere else but at this dratted piece of linen. Her padding only invited removal, and the ill-fitting coat...oh, that was even worse. To look at it was to imagine her wearing nothing but. Being cursed with a fertile imagination, he was plagued with more disconcerting visions still, with the result that he didn't dare move a muscle beyond those required to tie the cravat, for fear he'd lose all control, drag her to the bed, and ravish her.
Finally, the job he'd been a fool to undertake was done, and he could step away from her. "There," he said, turning away. "You'll do. Just put on your—my—hat, and let's get out of here."
With the innkeeper's assistance, Will was carried out and flung unceremoniously over Basil's mount. After a brief, whispered conversation and the clinking of coins, Basil leapt up behind the marquess's prostrate form.
